The four P's
by Moneypenny
Summary: For the last week I've been running marketing lectures for colleagues, explaining to them the marketing principle of the four P's product, price, place and promotion. Needless to say my mind wandered and I ended up using the four principles as prompts,


Product – The product has to have the right features – for example it must look good and work well.

It's November and the weather is cold and damp. He should have thought of this he realizes, when he'd decided to take up running again. Swearing to himself as he hits a particularly large puddle, he tries to ignore the muddy water now oozing into his running shoes and concentrates on making the last mile.

It seems like a long mile and once the hospital's in sight he stops, hands resting on his knees as he gulps in the oxygen that his lungs have been screaming for. There was a time when he could have gone running during his lunch break and turned up for his afternoon meetings without a hair out of place. Now, although he might still feel twenty inside, his body is reminding him he's actually closer to forty. Getting to the locker rooms involves staggering through his department – a sight guaranteed not to inspire his patients – so he gives his heart and lungs a few minutes to catch up before he walks back into the hospital.

Ten minutes later and he's in the shower. Slumping against the wall he groans with relief as the hot water slowly heats up his body. Running never used to take this much out of him. Then again neither did his previous two divorces, he reflects ruefully.

Grabbing the soap he massages it into his abused muscles. At med school he'd been whippet-thin, exhausting hours and bursts of adrenaline consuming any calories he put down his throat. Of course he doesn't expect to still have the body of a twenty-year old but recently he's spent too many evenings eating takeout with House, or relying on room service when he's got back to the hotel late at night. In the past he's been able to moderate his intake by cooking his own food but he rarely does that now. And he doubts that running at lunchtime is going to be enough to reverse the ageing process.

It does help him to clear his head though, for which he's grateful. Time is moving on and it's been bugging him for a while that he's still living in a hotel, despite the divorce being finalized. He needs to start planning for the future. Maybe get an apartment. Something permanent.

Lost in thought he doesn't notice that the curved end of a cane being hooked onto the handle of his shower cubicle. As the door swings open, letting in a blast of cold air, he yelps and grabs a towel to wrap around his middle.

"House!"

Still scrabbling to secure the towel, it takes him a second to realize House hasn't uttered a word – no sarcastic or witty comeback explaining why he's barged into the shower. When he looks up House is staring at him, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown. Unconsciously he stands taller, blinking furiously as water drips from his fringe.

"I'm kinda busy here," he points out, waving at the towel he's wearing and silently cursing as he stutters on the last word. "You wanted something?"

House blinks back at him, like a man coming out of a dream. His scowl deepens. "Consult. My office. Now."

The shower door swings shut and he listens to House leave, the thud of his cane echoing in the tiled room. Puffs of steam float out of the cubicle as, his shower forgotten, he analyses House's abrupt response to the situation.

Flushed cheeks. Dilated pupils. Rapid breaths.

There's only one conclusion really.

He isn't ageing so badly after all.

Price – The price must be right. Will the consumer choose the product at the price offered and can you make a profit from it?

He attends the consult, as instructed, and it is urgent but not particularly interesting. House grumbles that because he'd been in the shower and unable to answer his page he'd had to drag himself all the way to the locker rooms (which actually isn't far but sounds like the top of Mount Everest from the way his friend describes it). They leave it there – it's what they do – and it's several weeks later when he thinks about it again.

It's been a morning of continuous meetings and his brain is working overtime at the amount of extra work they've produced. A quick glance at his watch tells him he's got time for coffee so he heads for the Oncology lounge, his mug in his hand. Two steps inside the door and he knows something bad has happened.

Half a dozen of his nursing staffing are huddled around one of the couches, speaking in hushed tones. They look up when he enters and he raises his eyebrows in question, not bothering to voice the obvious.

"We were talking about Dr Cox," someone offers, as he heads for the coffee machine.

Surprised, he stops and turns. "Henry Cox?" Cox is the Head of Orthopedics, happily married and dedicated to his job. Gossip about him is rare.

"Haven't you heard?" The nurses look at each other and his stomach twists nervously. "He had a heart attack this morning, at home. DOA."

The shock must show on his face. One of the younger female nurses takes the mug and goes to fill it with coffee. "Did you know him well?"

"Not really. Board meetings, fund raisers," he adds vaguely, grateful when his mug reappears, full now.

He makes his escape to his office before anyone can ask anything else. Henry Cox is – was – just another colleague. They'd worked well together but they weren't really friends. He tries to turn his attention back to the files on his desk but the feeling of shock still lingers and he gives in, leaning back in his chair as he drinks his coffee.

If he's truthful Henry wasn't just another colleague on the board. Several years before he'd treated Henry's wife Geraldine for breast cancer. She'd been lucky: eventually he'd been able to give her the all-clear. While Geraldine had been in surgery he'd sat with Henry and listened as the older man told him about his family, his marriage and the woman he called his best friend.

He hadn't been married to Julie for long then. They were still in the early passionate stage of their relationship and he had been walking around in a happy glow. Despite having the experience of his two previous marriages to draw on, he hadn't understood when Henry had described Geraldine as both his wife and best friend. He can understand it now, the way friendship can survive and hold a relationship together when sometimes love can't.

With a sigh he rubs his hand across his eyes. He should send Geraldine his condolences or whatever colleagues were supposed to do in this situation. It seems like an empty gesture though. He's almost lost his best friend to a bullet and drugs and although he's been lucky both times there have been moments when he's felt the despair and emptiness he's sure Geraldine is experiencing now. Of course it's worse for her, she's also lost the man she loves. The man he loves, on the other hand, it still alive.

Closing his eyes, his mind drifts back to the incident in the locker room. Perhaps he'd imagined House's reaction. But they've had moments like that before, a sort of hitch in time when he's felt as if he could reach out and touch and not be rebuffed. He's never been brave enough though. Despite what the nurses say about him he doesn't consider himself a good catch. He's got the wreckage of three marriages behind him and he's hated himself every time.

It wouldn't work. The price would be too high. House has been burnt by a relationship before and he's always looking for the next lie or sign of betrayal. He loves Gregory House; he's sure of that. But he doesn't know whether he's capable of shouldering the responsibility. Not for something as important as this.

With a sigh he forces himself to his feet and collects the paperwork for his next meeting. For the rest of the day he's busy but occasionally his mind wanders back to Henry Cox and his family.

Place – The product must be in the right place at the right time. Making sure the product is available to the targeted consumer when they need it is an important operation.

To his surprise he realizes he's whistling as he wanders around House's kitchen. He's had butterflies in his stomach for days now. But the methodical act of cooking has always relaxed him and it's been a while since he's had a chance to indulge.

His relaxed mood doesn't last long. Suddenly the clock on the wall is telling him that House is due home in five minutes and he starts to panic. He's thought hard about his decision. He reminds himself about Geraldine Cox; at her husband's funeral she'd been so determined to share with everyone the joyful memories of her marriage, despite her overwhelming grief. No, he's made the right decision. It'll be fine, he tells himself sternly. The worst thing that can happen is that he and House will just remain friends.

Another glance at the clock and House is due any second. He grabs a wooden spoon to stir the hotpot he's got simmering on the hob. As the minutes tick by he convinces himself that House isn't coming home, a myriad of reasons running through his mind, each one upping his heartbeat. When the front door does finally open he drops the spoon in shock. Any greeting House might have offered is obliterated by his own shocked 'Fuck!'. Not thinking straight, he's tried to retrieve the spoon from the pot. The contents are boiling hot.

Blowing on his fingers, he finds himself another spoon and carries on cooking. Casual, he reminds himself, just act casual. He can hear the rhythmic thud, thud, thud of the cane as House moves around in the next room. Doors open and close and there's the slap of leather on leather as his jacket hits the couch.

There's two more thuds – heading in his direction. Then silence. And sniffing.

He knows exactly what has grabbed House's attention. The apartment always smells musty and it's not a scent he thinks is conducive for a big seduction scene; not that he's convinced there's going to be a seduction of any reasonable size but he needs all the help he can get. So he's cured the problem with a fragranced aerosol. Not the gag-inducing flowery scents that Julie used to like. The tin said musky scent with spicy elements. Personally he thinks it smells like a gym locker room but it is masculine if nothing else.

Eventually a voice floats through from the living room. "Either Steve's been eating Camembert cheese while I've been out or you've been cleaning."

Despite his nervousness Wilson finds himself grinning, a grin which turns into a full-blown smile as he hears House throwing magazines around. So much for tidying up.

His smile fades as he listens to House thump his way to the bedroom. He stops stirring, takes a deep breath. Any second now there's going to be a rather large explosion. He'd had another moment of inspiration while he was out shopping but with hindsight he's not sure if wasn't one step too far.

"Wilson! There's new sheets on my bed!"

Promotion – The targeted consumer needs to be made aware of the existence and availability of the product through promotion.

"Egyptian cotton," he shoots back casually as if buying new bed linen for a friend, a male friend, is the most natural thing in the world.

House is on the move again and the thuds are rapid fire and heading straight for his position. He takes a deep breath and recites to himself his new mantra; keep it casual, casual, casual. Suddenly the thuds are closer and it's a toss-up which is louder: House's cane or the beat of his heart.

"Wilson!"

He jumps.

And then there's silence.

As his heart slows again the only thing he can hear is the sound of House breathing. He forces himself to look up, not to fidget nervously or pluck at the black t-shirt he's wearing. He bought that too while he was out shopping, along with the jeans he's wearing. The university sweatshirts he normally favors outside of work have been consigned to the back of the closet. He's dragged them with him through three marriages, donning them like comforter blankets in times of stress. It's time for a new start. He hadn't been sure about his choice but the store assistant had been helpful. "Sir," the young man had whispered to him breathlessly, "you've just got to buy the Lycra one."

House is still frozen, surprisingly silent. But his appraising look is similar to the one in the shower. Suffering from a sense of deja-vu he finds himself standing taller and straightens his shoulders. He tries not to shiver as a tingle of electricity shoots down his spine.

"You're planning something." House's tone is accusing. The cane is nervously tap, tap, tapping in time with his words. "You promised me food and porn."

Carefully, he puts the spoon down and wipes his hands. He's had time to think up lots of glib comebacks that in different circumstances he's sure House would appreciate. But studying House's expression he understands that right now it has to be the truth or nothing.

"I did." He takes a deep breath then points first at the food cooking on the hob and then at himself. "Food and porn."

It takes a second but then he sees House tense as he realizes what he's asking.

He's tried to keep his tone light. In his mind he thinks there'll be one of two responses; either House will come up with a scathing retort and they'll never talk about this moment again, or he'll go all in and lean over and kiss him.

Of course House, being House, comes up with another option. He walks off.

Staring at the empty space where House had been standing, he stuffs his hands into his pockets to stop them shaking. He can hear the quiet murmur of House's voice, occasionally interrupted by the squeak of a rat. He's feeding Steve his evening treat of cheese. It's normal. It's routine.

House is going to pretend this conversation never happened.

The premonition hits him like a sledge-hammer and he turns away. Blinking furiously against the sudden heat in his eyes he reaches out blindly for the edge of the work surface, using it as an anchor to keep him upright. In the distance the cookery timer beeps, reminding him about the food. He really wants to ignore it but the responsible part of his brain reminds that he ought to at least turn off the gas.

He's still standing there several minutes later when the thud of the cane announces House is back. He expects him to come closer but he stops on the other side of the kitchen, the table a physical barrier between them. Head down, the silence heavy, he struggles for something to say.

"No wonder I've screwed up three marriages. My seduction technique sucks." He flinches at the sound of his own voice; he'd been going for self-depreciation but it's come out sounding bitter instead.

"Who said there was anything wrong with your seduction technique?"

He turns slowly. House's voice is so low that he wonders if he misheard. The regret on his friend's face is real though and he opens his mouth to argue, seeing one last chance to put this right.

House shakes his head and stares at the floor. It takes him a second to get it: that House the diagnostician is way ahead as usual, has analyzed the situation and decided it won't work. Arguing is useless. House is rarely wrong.

Slumping against the worktop he tiredly runs his fingers through his hair. Looking up he notices House is watching him, his head tilted to one side.

"You didn't choose that," House states, jabbing his cane in the direction of his chest.

The t-shirt. House is talking about his clothes. His friend is focusing on trivia while he's standing there feeling like his world has collapsed around his ears. For some reason that appeals to his sense of humor and despite himself he chuckles.

"No, the assistant chose it for me. I think he had a thing for Lycra."

"Did you get his number?"

House sounds deadly serious and he splutters out his reply; "I can't…you don't mean…I couldn't…"

"Yes you can, if that's what you really want."

And that, he suddenly realizes, is the root of his problem. He knows he's missing something but he doesn't know what it is. House is still studying him but now there's sympathy in his eyes.

Rubbing his face, he takes a deep breath then stands up straighter. "Guess I'm going to have to borrow your new bed linen then," he says, pleased when his voice doesn't waver. "Don't want it to go to waste…" The words finally dry up and he's reduced to waving vaguely in the direction of the bedroom instead.

There's silence again but before it can smother them entirely, House adopts a leer, his expression almost comical. "Who says they won't be seeing any action?"

He takes the bait his friend is offering and raises his hands in disgust. "Ugh. No, no more details. And to think I was seriously thinking of having sex with you."

They both fall silent again, the regret between them almost palpable. Suddenly House lurches to his feet, the tap of his cane uncertain as he negotiates his way across the kitchen to grab a chunk of raw pepper from the worktop.

If this was a normal day and they were sitting in the hospital canteen his automatic reaction would be to slap House's hand away. But House is standing in front of him like a little boy looking for forgiveness, offering up the piece of pepper like a peace offering in his hand.

Slowly he reaches out and takes it back. "Get out of my kitchen, House, if you want any dinner. You're on porn duty. The tapes are beside the couch."

House nods, tips sideways so their shoulders briefly touch and then he's off, muttering under his breath about the nagging control freak whose been channeling Martha Stewart in his home. Shaking his head he listens to him go, noting the lighter, more relaxed thud of the cane.

Taking a few deep breaths he turns his attention back to the cooking. He feels sick inside and his heartbeat is still pounding, sounding unnaturally loud. But deep down he knows that House is right. It's time he made some decisions about his future.

First things first though - he's going to take some time out and learn to appreciate what he's already got.


End file.
